


all at once dissapeared

by valonqarth



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, Gen, Joncon pines, Light Angst, M/M, Pre-Series, Rhaegar is a wonderwall playing fuckboy, Robert's Rebellion, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-26
Updated: 2015-09-26
Packaged: 2018-04-23 12:35:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4877068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valonqarth/pseuds/valonqarth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"One day, once this war is done. Things will change, Jon. You know I said I'd make things change," said Rhaegar.<br/>“Be careful, Rhaegar. Robert… he’s stronger than a common outlaw…”<br/>“Are you beginning to doubt me, Lord Connington?” Rhaegar replied, a smile gracing his lips. The playful use of his title now stung. He was no Lord. <br/>“Never. I am your man, now and always,” he said seriously. It was strange now, that in the end Jon would be solemn and serious whilst Rhaegar smiled. It was one of the many details Jon had committed to memory of this conversation, the last time he would ever see the prince.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Harrenhal

The Tourney at Harrenhal was to be the greatest tourney of his generation, Jon had been told. The best fighters from the North to Dorne had arrived to the mangled castle. Harrenhal was seated at the centre of the Riverlands and the centre of attention for the next 10 days of the tourney. The feast was a merry occasion, with wine and food aplenty.

Jon stared down into his cup of wine. He watched in silence at the celebration around him. Elia and Rhaegar, as honoured guests, sat beside the hosts. Jon preferred to stay out of the loud conversations for the evening. There was talk of the events to come, and the young ladies thought of the possibility of a mystery knight entering the lists like in the songs. Jon liked to see a good fight as well as any other man, but the romance and idealism of tourneys was lost on him completely.

Elia's brother, Oberyn, crossed the hall to where Jon sat alone with his cup of wine. "May I join you, my Lord? You look as though you are in need of company," he said, gesturing to the empty chair beside Jon. Jon nodded curtly.

"A man may sit where he pleases; it is no bother to me, Martell."

"Forgive me, I do not know your name, though I recognise you from the Keep."

"I am Jon Connington, my lord."

"Ah, yes, that is it. Friend of my good brother, are you not?"

Jon nodded again, and drank a mouthful of the wine. The Dornish red tasted sweet in his mouth and helped to warm his stomach. He felt a surge of pride at being known as Rhaegar's friend, that people associated him with the prince.

“Yes, I am.”

“You look sad. How can that be so on such a festive occasion?”

“I feel no different than usual. I am neither sad nor festive at the moment.”

“Then I fear that may be the problem. All men must die, Lord Connington, and it does not do to sit alone with your melancholy when life has so many possibilities. Talk to people. Dance. Live.”

“I am fine where I am, my lord.”

“Passing by the hours, watching the crowd, watching him. That is no way to spend a feast. No way to spend a life. It is not good for the health, you see.”

Jon stared at Oberyn, eyes wide. He was right. He couldn’t let his affection get in the way of it all. He stood up and Oberyn smiled.

Tentatively he approached the table where the Dayne siblings sat chatting idly and sipping their wine. He did not know many of the girls at the feast, and had danced with even fewer of them, but Ashara was kind and he knew she liked to dance.

“Um, Ashara?” Jon said.

She looked up with a smile, and her eyes widened slightly when she saw who had addressed her.

“Yes, Jon? Is everything alright?” she said.

“Yes, my lady. I was wondering if you would like to dance?” he said, his voice trailing into a question. She raised an eyebrow.

“I would like to dance with you,” he clarified, more assuredly. “If my lady would allow it.”

Ashara looked to her brother, before smiling back at Jon. “Of course, Lord Connington.”

She offered him her hand and he escorted her to where the rest of the guests were dancing.

“Forgive me if I seemed surprised, my lord. I did not expect you to be one for dancing. I think I could count on one hand the amount of times I’ve seen you dance.”

She twirled to the music, her skirts fanning out around her ankles.

“I’m not a dancer, no,” he admitted. “I’m afraid I never got the hang of it. I thought I should make the effort to try.”

She nodded in understanding and the dance continued. Jon had been taught to dance as a boy, as befitting of a young Lord’s education but the steps had been forgotten quite a bit through lack of use. They made little conversation, paying too much attention to the calculated steps the song required.

After the dance ended, Jon bowed to Ashara. Jon smiled at her as she curtseyed before him. The gesture was rather formal considering how far into their cups the rest of the party had become, but it made them both laugh.

“So,” she said, inspecting him with her haunting eyes. “Who are you trying to impress?”

“What? No one.” he blurted. His expression turned serious

“Well, if it was me you didn’t look nearly as frightened of my brother as you should have been,” Ashara gestured over to Arthur, chatting to Rhaegar and their friends in one corner of the hall. “So I’m guessing it must be someone else.”

“Who said I was trying to impress anyone?” Jon replied, taking a step back from Ashara.

“My lord, do not think me unintelligent, I know a man with something to prove when I see one.”

Jon opened his mouth to argue, but she raised a hand to stop him.

“I do not mean to offend you, Jon. I will not mock you,” she said calmly, placing a hand on his arm.

“I do not mean to insult your intelligence, but truly, my lady, I am not trying to impress any women here,” he defended himself.

Ashara leaned forward and whispered to him. “Don’t fret over him. It shall only make you more miserable.”

Jon Connington took another quick step back and met her purple eyes, horrified.

“That’s not-” Jon began, and stopped himself.

“Jon. I know you, I see you look at him in court,” she said solemnly. Her eyes softened for a moment, as if she were sad for him.

“Be sure to tell me if you need any assistance in talking to him about it,” she added with a small smile.

With that, she thanked him again for the dance and walked away leaving him mouth agape and alone where the couples moved harmoniously around him. He returned to his seat, blushing furiously and wondering if his affections had always been so obvious.

* * *

 

 

A hand clamped down on his shoulder and he looked up to see Rhaegar smirking.

“Well, well,” he said. “The Griffin blushes.”

“What? No. I’m just… sunburnt. You know how prone to burning I am,” he said with a nervous laugh.

“Really, Jon, I didn’t know you had a fancy for Dornish girls. I can see you blushing from across the room,” Rhaegar said. Jon opened his mouth to object. Ashara’s eyes were violet, a haunting colour that made her beautiful to look at, but the violet of her eyes was a poor imitation against the dark indigo of his friend’s. Jon had looked at women before, but he could not see himself taking one for a wife or anything like it. It felt almost wrong to Jon, a betrayal of himself.

“Oh, pardon me, my Lord, I can see your sunburn. That has appeared suddenly, indoors at under the cover of night,” he nodded.

“I think she has eyes for Stark,” Jon said, scratching the back of his neck and nodding over to where the Starks had seated themselves. Brandon and his younger brother sat whispering to each other, stealing occasional glances at Ashara. Ashara had caught them staring and raised an eyebrow at the pair. Brandon held her gaze and grinned wolfishly whilst his brother Eddard shrunk timidly under her gaze and was staring at his feet.

“The pain of unrequited love. It sounds romantic. Maybe I’ll write a song for you, The Ballad of Jon and His Pining Heart.”

At that moment, Jon Connington found himself wanting to drown in his ale.

“I’m sure you could come up with a better title than that with all your wit and lyricism, your grace” Jon shook his head at Rhaegar.

“That may be true,” he said wistfully, picking up his harp. He plucked a melody idly with his slender fingers. “But I have had a bit too much wine and my best lyrics come to me best where I was born.”

Rhaegar turned away from Jon and situated himself beside his wife where she sat with Ashara and Arthur Dayne. There was a all of quiet that only came about when Rhaegar sat with his harp, as if the audience knew that he was about to perform.

“So anyway, here’s the Dornishman’s Wife,” Rhaegar said to the people gathered to listen to him. He passed a smirk over to Jon and in that moment Jon realised he wanted to drown Rhaegar and _then_ himself.

Rhaegar sang it beautifully, of course.


	2. Bells

Sweat fell into his eyes, but he ran through the burning. He ran and crashing through the door of each house he came across searching for the rebel and traitor. He tried to assure the folk of Stoney Sept that he wasn't going to hurt them, that he was only looking for Robert Baratheon. They accepted his claim, but the women still trembled at his approach and children wept in fear. It was understandable to Jon, in times like these an army arriving on your doorstep would be an omen of death whether the army rode under the royal sigil or a stag. His soldiers rushed around him, searching everywhere for Robert. The only sounds filling the air were the clang of bells and the clang of armour, so unlike the gentle tones of Rhaegar's harp. _Rhaegar creates beautiful songs,_ Jon thought, _but Robert creates the cacophony of war._

"My lord!"  a Darry soldier called to him. "Should we not just burn the city? Surely Robert would also perish?"

The thought had crossed his mind. It was a tempting thought. A hero killed the rebel face to face, not by lighting a fire around him and praying to the gods for the best outcome.

"No, we shall not burn them all. Keep searching, we will find him," Jon replied. _And I will drive my sword through his chest myself, for Rhaegar and for the Crown_.

Jon stopped in the middle of the square and looked around at the chaos of soldiers searching for Robert. Jon was certain that he was here. He had to be. He was wounded, too wounded to have gotten far on his journey North to meet his host of Stark and Tully traitors. Traitors, he sourly reminded himself, which would arrive at the city walls at any moment.

The bells rang, louder and louder. They didn't seem to stop. He had half a mind to abandon his search for a second and make his way into the sept itself, if only to stop the bells. _No,_ he thought, _let them ring. They shall herald my victory and the end of this wretched war._ He wished this war had never happened. He wished Rhaegar had never set eyes on the Stark girl. Had things been different he’d be in Kings Landing, playing childish games with Princess Rhaenys on his lap whilst Rhaegar played his harp to Elia.

Suddenly, over the clamour of the tolling bells and the search party, a horn sounded. It broke Jon away from his thoughts. Robert's army had arrived.

He ran as fast as he could to the city gate and drew his sword from its scabbard at his belt. The Stoney Sept could not be besieged, for Jon knew that he could not hold it if it was. He decided that he must meet them in battle before it was too late.

"Soldiers!" he bellowed. "Form ranks. Robert can wait now!"

It felt like hours of fighting. A nonstop struggle against the rebel forces that had swarmed towards the village.

It was no use. His force could not push back against the rebels without losing a multitude of men in the effort. These men should not be wasted here, he knew, as the war would not be won today.

“Retreat!” Lord Connington cried.

* * *

 

The battle was done. Even then he knew that this battle had changed his fate forever. Victory was in his grasp, but he let it slip through his fingers for the chance of glory. He stood before the King at the foot of the Iron Throne. He bowed his head in shame at the defeat. Prince Rhaegar stood at his father's side, his black armour shining in the firelight. Jon did not dare meet his eye.

"The rebel escaped, Your Grace, we did everything we could to stop him. We were forced to retreat."

"Everything?" Aerys said. "Everything? If you had done everything the traitor would've burned! The last Hand I had would've seen sense! He would've burned the city to the ground, taking the rebel scum with it!"

"There were too many civilians-"

"How many civilians will die now? Through rape and war and fire? I should have never named you my hand if this is how you should dishonour me!" Aerys screamed down at him from the Iron Throne.

In a way, Aerys was right. Lord Tywin Lannister would've done what he needed to do. Every one, every man woman and child, he would have sacrificed their lives for Robert Baratheon's had he been there. Lord Tywin Lannister would not care that smallfolk would brand him a butcher and a murderer, too proud to care for the muttering of peasants.

"It seems, Lord Connington, that I cannot trust anyone to be my Hand. Lannister betrays me, now you. I know how you all think. How you all think you can worm your way to my side and stab me in the back."

"Your Grace, I did not do this to thwart-"

"Enough. You have failed in your duty. Guards, I shall see him burned."

Panic rose in Jon's chest. He could not die, not now, not when they needed him. He would die with a sword in his hand, he had figured, defending his country and his king. Ser Jaime Lannister, stood silently at Aerys’ side, faltered for a moment before smoothly drawing his sword.

At that moment, Rhaegar protested.

"Father, see sense," he said. "He is a noble Lord, Lord of Storms End in fact, much loved in the Stormlands. How many more of the houses of the Stormlands would turn to the traitor if they knew you had executed a Lord who remained loyal to you?"

Aerys did not seem impressed, but considered Rhaegar's words.

"Such failure cannot go unpunished. You shall not burn as much as I wish you would, but I am a just king, I say, so you shall have mercy."

"Jon Connington, I sentence you to exile. You shall hold no titles or land and you shall leave my kingdoms. Should you return you will be burned for your crime.”

He stood still in shock. He would not die, no, but he could never be the man he once was.

Jon admitted to himself that he had never been even to Braavos, let alone any of the other Free Cities. What would he do? He could always become a sellsword, as much as it hurt his pride. Sellswords knew no honour, only blood and money.

He would never see his family again. He would never see the sun rise over Griffin's Roost on a summer morning. He would never hear the silver prince lazily pluck out the delicate notes of the sad song he had played to Jon for the first time almost a lifetime ago.

 

The King was still staring at him he bowed stiffly, as low as he could manage. "Thank you for your mercy, Your Grace. It has been an honour to serve as your Hand."

“Save me your mummer’s courtesies,” the King said dismissively, raising a clawed hand. “Rhaegar, send Ser Barristan and Ser Jonothor to round up what’s left of our host, whilst we still can. See to any other matters, for I am tired of this nonsense.”

Weakly he hobbled to his feet and left the throne room, his Kingsguard trailing behind him.  Jon stood silently, processing what exile would mean. Rhaegar descended the steps of the throne room, tension lifted from his shoulders after his father had left them.

"I must go, Jon. Robert rides further each minute," Rhaegar said sadly, yet pulled Jon into an embrace anyway.

"Will I ever see you again, my prince?" Jon stammered, a lump forming in his throat. He was glad that Rhaegar could not see his face, he knew his face would give away the emotions he'd hid away for years. Did he even care anymore? _I will not let him see me cry. I will be strong, as he is my strength._

He pulled away for a moment to look at Jon and Jon was hurt by the loss of contact. The silver haired prince considered his question, before gently pressing his forehead to his friend's. His heart wrenched at the gesture, at the thought that he would never have this with Rhaegar again. That he would never have anything with Rhaegar.

At the back of his mind he wondered what would happen if he moved to press a kiss to Rhaegar’s lips. One chaste kiss to convey years of devotion. _Would Rhaegar protest? Would he reciprocate?_

The Lord’s breath stopped briefly and he felt his heart almost swell.

Before a choice could be made, Rhaegar moved back to hold his friend at arm’s length as he grasped his shoulders. The moment was swept away, and with it went Jon Connington’s courage. He looked Jon in the eye, only standing a mere inch taller than the now-exiled Lord. In the moment the height between them seemed longer, like Rhaegar towered over him when in reality he did not.

"One day, once this war is done. Things will change, Jon. You know I said I'd make things change," said Rhaegar.

“Be careful, Rhaegar. Robert… he’s stronger than a common outlaw…”

“Are you beginning to doubt me, Lord Connington?” Rhaegar replied, a smile gracing his lips. The playful use of his title now stung. He was no Lord.

“Never. I am your man, now and always,” he said seriously. It was strange now, that in the end Jon would be solemn and serious whilst Rhaegar smiled. It was one of the many details Jon had committed to memory of this conversation, the last time he would ever see the prince.


	3. Exile

_I should have been there. I should have protected him. I should have died with him. I should have burned Robert Baratheon alive whilst I had the damned chance._ Jon had never hated someone as much as Lyanna Stark. Had Rhaegar never looked at her he would be alive and whole and maybe even his King. He hated her, but he couldn’t bring himself to blame her. Who could say no to Rhaegar’s smile and his song? Jon Connington lost himself in his sour mood and sourer wine.

He had had one opportunity to prove himself to Rhaegar so that he may love him and his cowardice only led to his prince’s death. He had had one final chance to put his feelings to Rhaegar into the air between them, but again his renowned boldness had failed him.

Many hours had been spent, between the time Aerys had him exiled and word of Rhaegar’s death had reached him, thinking about that kiss. The kiss that could have been.

He would not have roughly grabbed at him, like some drunken oaf harassing a tavern wench. A chaste press of his lips - an invitation rather than a demand. Jon Connington was not one to demand anything from Rhaegar, not after years of loyal friendship between them. With memory softened by wine, he thought about what might have been until he was pulled from his thoughts by another voice.

“Ginger man,” a large Braavosi man said, elbowing him lightly. “What is that man looking at you? Do you owe him money?”

Jon frowned slightly, taking a second to decipher what the man had said to him in the heavily accented Common Tongue. He shrugged and turned his gaze to the man in the corner of the inn who seemed to be staring straight at him, though he could not see his eyes.

The man approached him, his face shrouded from Jon’s view with a hood. A man not wanting to be recognised by the wrong people, clearly. Jon watched as he came closer, eyeing the man suspiciously. He would not rob him, Jon knew. Anyone could tell that he was a man not frightened to draw his sword, preferring to keep his hand rested on the hilt of his sword through the years of training.

“What do you want? Speak now,” Jon said irritably.

“Lord Connington, I have looked for you,” a soft voice said. The man lowered his hood slowly, looking about himself. Jon was hit by a waft of sweet perfume, far more expensive than that worn by the whores on the docks of Braavos. The bald-headed eunuch from the Small Council stood before him. As short-lived as his time as Hand had been, Jon had made sure to know every schemer and flatterer in the Small Council. The Spider had always seemed untrustworthy and Jon could never quite be sure where his loyalties truly were. To see the eunuch so far from Westeros could not be good.

“It’s about Prince Rhaegar, may we go outside? There are ears everywhere,” he continued. Jon tensed at the name, but rose to follow him. The night air was cool on the back of his neck. The sounds of the street were like a queer kind of music to his ears, like Braavos never rested.

“What of Rhaegar?” he snarled.

“You know what happened on the Trident.” It was a statement, rather than a question. “What Varys doesn’t know isn’t worth knowing,” he had once been told of the eunuch.

“How could I not have?” Terrors of rubies in the water had invaded his dreams. Where his dreams had once held sweetness and relief they only now held grief and horror.

“Rhaegar is dead, we know, but the Targaryen line is not so easily lost. It is easy enough to place a babe in the right place at the right time, to allow one to die whilst the other lives.”

It felt as though Robert Baratheon had slammed his war hammer into his heart all over again.

“You mean to say the boy lives?” Jon choked out. He had heard the accounts of what Tywin Lannister had done even on the wrong side of the Narrow Sea, butchering Rhaegar’s family before the ripples in the Trident had stilled. Rhaenys, who persistently badgered him into games of Come into My Castle when he visited and squealed with glee. Elia, who had loved Rhaegar with all of her heart, even when he could not give her all of his. And Aegon, merely a babe.

“Who died in his place?” Jon did not care so much, but he felt mattered to think of who had lost their life in aid of Rhaegar’s family.

“A lowborn babe, not to be missed. It is easier than you may think to pass off one infant as another. Men will believe what they want to believe.”

“Rhaegar was my friend. I know him. He would want his son somewhere safe.”

“Aegon Targaryen is safe in the grave. He is safe as long as the Realm believes it. Who is better than you to raise and protect his heir?”

_Me? The man who let him down? The man who let him die._

Jon Connington found himself at a loss for words. For one thing, he had no experience caring for children. What if he dropped him? How would a sellsword earn a living with an infant swaddled to his chest? Gods forbid the child should starve and die of his account.

He remembered his cousin’s children, squawking red haired babes. He was not even a man grown when his cousin had placed the child into his arms. The baby had vomited right onto his doublet and Jon politely handed the child back, silently cursing to himself an pointedly deciding that children probably wasn’t something he would relish in should he marry.

“You must die too, Lord Connington. Only in name of course.”

Jon was stunned, but nodded. Should Jon Connington die there would be no friends left of Rhaegar to even be considered.

“And how, I ask, am I to have died?” he asked out of curiosity. Absently he wondered if anyone back in Westeros would care.

“You have drunken yourself to death, in shame due to your failures,” Varys said matter-of-factly.

Anger flared in Jon. “You mean to dishonour me, eunuch?”

“It is the only way to keep him safe,” he replied, leaning closer to Jon. “Surely your wounded pride would not keep you from this task?”

“Show me him,” he said. Proof was all he needed, proof that this wasn’t one of The Spider’s tricks.  Varys nodded wordlessly. As soon as he did so a woman passed by him, silently passing a bundle into the eunuch’s arms. Without breaking her stride and continuing down the canal side as if nothing had happened with Jon Connington staring after her.

“Why have you bought him here? To let him live without knowing who he is? To make him pretend to be someone else?” Hatred welled in Jon’s chest for the Usurper and how he had robbed an innocent child of his birth right. Jon Connington would die, it was of no matter now. Jon Connington died at Stoney Sept as far as he was concerned.

“No,” the eunuch shook his head. “There will come a time when he will come back into his kingdom. A babe cannot conquer Seven Kingdoms, but a man can. Make sure he is prepared.”

Jon opened his arms to take the child from Varys, who smiled. Aegon the Conqueror indeed.

“He will not remember.” Jon said. “Rhaegar, he will not remember Rhaegar.”

“No,” Varys said solemnly, “but you will. Through you, so will he.”

Jon Connington stared down at the babe, and the babe stared up at him. He rocked him very gently back and forth, not quite realising he was doing it. The fine platinum of his hair that Jon remembered was now dyed a bold blue like a Tyroshi sellsword he knew, so fresh that the dye still stained his skin slightly. He was almost unrecognisable as Rhaegar’s son but for his eyes. His lilac eyes glimmered in the light of the street torches. Like Rhaegar’s had, like all Targaryens’ did. Doubt fell away from Jon in a heartbeat. _Not quite the right shade, no, but enough. I failed the father, but I will not fail the son._

**Author's Note:**

> title affectionately referred to as the Joncon Hell Fic, which even has a hellish fanmix to accompany it  
> this fic has lived in my drafts for a while and I intended for it to be much longer (from childhood to ADWD) but it took forever and so finished it up as well as I could to just get it out here.  
> This fic is ultimately a result of screaming about Joncon headcanons with my friends, alrighty  
> My favourite deleted note from this fic is: "after rhaegar pulls the biggest dick move in history he plays yellow by Coldplay and is like DO U THINK THIS WILL MAKE SOMENE LOVE ME an jons like UH YEHA and rhaegar is like sweet my dude my bro my man ITS FOR LYANNA STARK and jon wants to die"


End file.
